


Cold Hearted

by Werewolfbeans



Category: teratophilia - Fandom
Genre: Monsters, Other, Wendigos, monster/human, sfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 14:34:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12483856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Werewolfbeans/pseuds/Werewolfbeans
Summary: A snowboarding accident leaves you with a broken leg, and an unwanted helper wants to intervene.





	Cold Hearted

**Author's Note:**

> I got a request for headcanons for a snowboarder who broke their legs, and a wendigo who saves them/visits them as they heal. I decided to write a fic instead, because I love wendigos and how creepy they can be.

If there was a word for how completely, and utterly terrified you were right now, you’re pretty sure you’d probably be right next to the definition.

 

It was just a simple trip, really! You and a couple friends had gone up the local mountain for a remote ski lodge, to try and snowboard until winter break ended- but the entire place was shut down, for one reason or another. Your friends wanted to head back down- it was too dangerous to stay here, anyways, without any other people. The reception was horrid, and the only phone worth using- a direct line to the local police station- was locked up inside the lodge.

 

You had managed to convince your friends to go on without you- you wanted to take a look around the area, to make sure there weren’t any people stranded (not that you could help them, but you could at least hike it back to the station and let  _ them  _ know), or to make sure the workers weren’t just on break. They had been long gone when you had finally given up, and, well, you had come up here for a reason, dammit! So, you decided to just go for a small snowboarding session- not even going up to the actual slope, but simply try to board down most of the way back to town.

 

Unfortunately, there’s a reason there were signs forbidding this.

 

When you finally woke up, after crashing and burning over a large rock, you were in an unfamiliar place- a dark, cold cave, full of shredded cloth, scattered bones and meat, and with the stench of rotting dead things. Your leg was bent inward, and ached as if someone had taken a hammer and beat you with it- which told you that it was, at the best, broken in several places. There seemed to be a crude splint on it, but it was hardly doing any good- in fact, without the bones being set, you’re sure it was doing more harm than good. 

 

As you were looking at your leg, and wondering how in the  _ world  _ you got here- and why you were in such a creepy place, you heard a snuffling noise- your head snapping up, only to meet cold, soulless eyes in the mouth of the cave.

 

You would later learn what a wendigo was, and why you were the luckiest bastard alive that day.

 

It was a weird experience from then on. The wendigo- cold and cruel, they towered above you even when you  _ weren’t  _ sitting- seemed the only care about keeping you fed. They didn't offer kind words to ease your throbbing leg, nor did it seem to care when it jostled you out of its way (it was, though, nice enough to acknowledge your pain by picking you up, instead of scooting you over). They was old and decaying, more bone than animal (for even if they walked on two legs, there was nothing human about them). But, late at night, when the pain was unbearable, and you were trying to quiet your sobs, they seemed to sense your sadness, and would sometimes  _ sing  _ to you- not in a traditional sense, but their howls were unearthly and melodic at times, and you found comfort in the idea it was, in fact, singing. 

 

It had been a week or so since your accident- and though the wendigo was feeding you, you often found it hard to choke down raw meat- which meant things were starting to look bleak. You knew you couldn’t survive out there- the snow was too heavy coming down, and you’d surely freeze to death, or get lost trying to find your way to the town (or lodge, for that matter). You couldn’t exactly go hunting for yourself, and judging from how the monster hissed at you whenever you tried to use your phone as a light (there was no reception, so there was no use in keeping it on otherwise), you couldn’t cook your meat.

 

You’d have to talk to the beast yourself.

 

You were alone, for most of the day- the creature often went hunting during the day, contrary to popular belief, so you were left to your own devices for the most part. When they eventually returned- around dusk, when the snow was starting to pick up, and they could barely move their joints from the sheer freezing temperatures- you decided to face your fears, and acknowledge them for the first time.

 

“H...Hey,” You say- voice shaking and hoarse, likely from fear, and lack of use. “You- uh, can...can I ask you something,”

 

The monster looks over at you, slowly and deliberately, hollowed eyes seemingly staring into your soul. You hated it when they stared at you- you could never see what they were thinking, nor did they seem to have any real  _ reason  _ to it. 

 

You take the silence as a yes, and swallow thickly- wishing you had something more than snow to ‘drink’ on- before gathering your nerves. “I need...actual food- that I can eat. This-” You say, gesturing to the rotting pile of meat that lays at your feet, “This isn’t...edible. For me, anyways, I mean, if  _ you  _ can eat it, fantastic! It’s just- y’know, not very good for hu-”

 

The beast suddenly starts to advance to you, and were it not for the cave wall behind you, you’d be scurrying backwards. You never enjoyed when they got close- their breath smelled of rotting flesh, and their fur (what was left, anyways) was moldy and had a distinct mildew smell. You instinctively throw your arms up to cover your face, fearing the worst.

 

You feel something nosing your stomach, and are both shocked, and a tad horrified to look and see the wendigo poking your stomach with its snout. Were it not for the bits of viscera and gore showing, you’d have found it cute.

 

You feel them poke your stomach- which was significantly smaller and concave, than when they had first found you- before they sit up, looking at the meat they had left for you earlier. You can practically see the gears turning in their skull, before they looks back at you. From here, you can see all of the details in their face- the bits missing from the skull, where the eyes had turned to mush and never really got cleaned out, the sharp, unnaturally long teeth that gave it a jack o'lantern grin, the fur clinging to what remained of its muscles- were you a cultured individual, you’d have found the sight almost...poetic.

 

They open their mouth, a rattling hiss coming out- spittle and blood flying with it, and onto you, before you heard a rasping wheeze. They looked as if it was trying to talk- the jaw moving up and down like a ventriloquist dummy, before anything ever came out.

 

“Will….try….” Is all the beast says, before it seemingly gives up on trying to form words. At that, they get up, turning around and returning to their own meal for the evening- leaving you confused, shocked, and with a new set of questions. Did they mean they’ll try to find you other kinds of food? Or will they try to cook the meat? You wish you could ask- but from how the monster was inhaling the rotting meat, you think it’d be best to leave them be for now.

 

You settled in for the night, dimly aware of the throbbing in your legs, and letting sleep overtake you. You found a bit of comfort in the fact that the beast seemed to care for your well being, and was willing to listen to you- or, at the very least, wasn’t trying to eat you for dinner. But one question remained- not when you would be found, or when you would die, though those were good questions- no no, the one question you didn’t have any sort of answer to?

 

What were your own feelings to this beast?


End file.
